


Follow Your Heart but Also the Grind of Metal

by victoriousscarf



Series: Beware of Heroes [9]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dune Setting, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-11 07:06:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7881319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/victoriousscarf/pseuds/victoriousscarf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having Celegorm along was an accident, but that's not going to stop Finrod and Turgon. They have a fever dream to chase down across half the sky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Another series that hasn't been QUITE A YEAR since I last touched. 
> 
> This one is gonna get worse before it gets better.

“Have I mentioned how much I do not like being your friend?” Finrod asked, and his fingers were firm on the controls of the ship.

“You've mentioned it a few times,” Turgon said, all proud profile and straight back beside him.

“I hope you know what you're doing,” Finrod said, and he kept his breathing even, refusing to break. “Because if you do not, we'll have deserted in the middle of war. If you do know what you're doing, we'll almost certainly be labeled traitors. They might let you see your daughter again but there's no promises of that.”

“I know,” Turgon said. “I would rather face death knowing she might have a better chance than to slog through this war at her side.”

“Alright then,” Finrod said, and he had maneuvered the ship to the edge of the fleet. He had calculated the jump entirely on his own and took a deep breath, because it was always better to double check those calculations with one of the captured navigators but he dared not risk it.

“Wait,” Turgon said suddenly, covering his hands with one of his.

“If we do not go now,” Finrod said and fell silent when he saw the fighter heading right for them. “Oh. Hell. Who is that?”

“Someone coming to check on us I suppose,” Turgon said.

Finrod swore, and made sure the docking bay was open. The ship they had was small, but it had to keep them for possibly a long time so it had enough room for up to three fighters in its hull. “Fighter, this is the Gauntlet, what are you doing out here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Celegorm said over the radio and Turgon and Finrod exchanged a panicked look. “I was on patrol when I saw you inching away. Whatever are you two up to?”

“Have the Feanorians become even less trusting?” Turgon asked.

“Perhaps,” Celegorm said. “I'll be at the control room in a few minutes, we can finish this then.”

Turgon and Finrod looked at each other as Finrod shut down the channel.

“We should jump,” Turgon said.

“Have you lost whatever mind remains to you?” Finrod demanded. “We have one of Fëanor's sons on our ship. And you want to keep going?”

“If we don't know, we won't have the chance,” Turgon said. “And you very well know it. We jump now or we give up on this.”

“Yes, let's kidnap Celegorm,” Finrod snapped. “It's not even what his brother's will gladly execute us, it's what Celegorm himself could do when he realizes what we are up to.”

“The two of us can take him.”

“Are you so certain of that? Because frankly, I am not,” Finrod said.

“We survived on the ice,” Turgon said, meeting his eyes. “We can survive this.”

Finrod stared at him before he nodded and slammed the controls forward before Celegorm could reach them.

-0-

“I felt the jump,” Celegorm said, and he had slammed the control room door open with too much force. “What the fuck are you two up to?”

Finrod almost laughed, and they were both standing and facing him. Celegorm paused, looking between them and realizing they were prepared for trouble from him. He crossed his arms. “It's complicated,” Finrod said.

“How complicated?” Celegorm demanded.

“We may have just committed treason,” Finrod said, and his tone was mild but both his and Turgon's posture was anything but.

Celegorm stared at him. “Is there a particular reason you decided on that?” he settled for finally, not moving one way or another yet, toward acceptance or attack.

“We're losing the war,” Turgon said.

“Sure,” Celegorm agreed, biting the words off. “We have been. For years.”

“The infighting certainly has not helped,” Finrod said and Celegorm narrowed his eyes at him.

“That was not my decision, it never was.”

“Did you protest it terribly?” Finrod asked.

“Have you asked my dear brother how he felt about it?” Celegorm asked and felt a vicious thrill when Finrod looked away that time. “I'm sure he was as torn up as our father was.”

“The point,” Turgon cut in. “Is that we need another solution.”

“And what solution does running away create?” Celegorm asked, leaning indolent against the wall, his arms lazily crossed over his chest.

Finrod scowled again, about to open his mouth to say something cutting when Turgon beat him to it. “We're going to try and find something.”

“Oh? Some secret weapon? Those are legends, and if they did exist, Morgoth would have already found them,” Celegorm shook his head. “You're leaving the fight for a wild chase? That's not like you, Turgon.”

“It's not so wild as you think,” Turgon said.

“Please stop dancing around and just tell me what you're trying to find.”

“There are machines who left Morgoth,” Turgon said and Celegorm burst out laughing.

“No. You cannot be serious. You of all people were pulled in by those stories? I can barely believe it. They're just _stories_ , Turgon. And we hardly need machines to fight other machines.”

“Humanity is not doing a very good job of it themselves,” Turgon said.

“And when you cannot find them?” Celegorm asked. “How long have you given yourself for this mad quest before you slink home and admit defeat? A year? Ten? How much will we have lost in the meantime?”

Turgon's mouth thinned. “I do not know,” he said. “But I will do anything for this war.”

Celegorm considered him for several long moments, Finrod practically vibrating beside Turgon with repressed words. “So you know where to start?”

“To start, yes,” Turgon said.

“Are you coming with us?” Finrod asked.

“Do I have a choice any more?” Celegorm asked.

“No,” Turgon said.

“If this goes on too long,” Celegorm warned. “We will turn back. I will not give up a decade of the war for something like this. But,” and he looked at Finrod who frowned at him. “I am curious to see what being wrong does to you.”

“I am not wrong,” Turgon said.

Celegorm smiled. “I don't believe you.”

-0-

Every jump put Finrod's heart in his throat, because they had lost so many—too many—ships to poorly calculated jumps. It was all they could do, without the speed of a machine's mind, without a thinking computer that could plan for every single shift of the universe. Finrod could plan for maybe fifty percent of the shifting universe. There were variables he simply had no comprehension of.

But they were slinking along a trail Turgon was certain of so they kept jumping.

-0-

“We need more supplies,” Turgon said, after three months.

“I can get them,” Celegorm shrugged, already heading for his fighter.

“No,” Turgon said.

“What?” Celegorm turned around. “I'm not just going to threaten them into giving me food.” His eyes narrowed and Turgon rocked back on his heels. “How little you think of us. Maedhros isn't the only one who takes down generals and strips them for precious metals.”

“Try not to scare any natives,” Finrod said.

“And fuck you,” Celegorm said, slinging himself into the fighter. “If you leave me here, believe me when I saw I will hunt you down across the whole universe.”

As he left, Turgon and Finrod stared at each other. “I never actually expected to get along with one of Fëanor's sons. Let alone the violent one.”

“You sleep with one of them,” Turgon said.

“Ah,” Finrod said. “I did. I assume that's over now. Besides, getting along is not required for that.”

Turgon gave him a long look and Finrod ignored him. “Be that as it may—”

“Turgon,” Finrod said, looking at him seriously. “Are we making progress? You said you knew it was more than a rumor, that you had a better idea of where to go. But are we making progress? What assurance do you actually have for this?”

Turgon paused a long moment. “Do you remember, the battle at Sirion?”

Finrod tensed and then nodded. “Yes, I do. We both were injured there, I remember that. I had a fever for a week afterwards, I couldn't think straight.”

“One of the machines,” Turgon said. “He spoke to both of us.”

Finrod frowned. “I do not remember—”

“You got knocked in the head pretty badly after that,” Turgon said. “He said that he was one of the ones who had left, who hated Morgoth. He's the reason we're both alive.”

“Turgon, you are starting to sound crazy,” Finrod said.

“I'm not, I swear on it,” Turgon said. “He saved us. He told me of some of his companions. If we can get their aid—”

“Yes, I know, that's why I'm here, I didn't realize it was a fever dream,” Finrod said and Turgon pulled out a data cube, abruptly cutting Finrod off. He stared at it and then back at Turgon. “The battle of Sirion was almost a year ago.”

“Yes,” Turgon said. “He said he would meet us at a certain time, in a certain place, if we were willing.”

“Turgon, you have _actually lost your mind_ ,” Finrod started.

“The next system is the one,” Turgon cut him off and dropped the data cube in his hand. “Look through it. And we'll see when we get there, won't we?”

He walked away, leaving Finrod staring at the data cube, turning it over and over in his hands. He decided not to check it, with the promise of answers or disappointment so close. He would find out one way or another then.

 


	2. Chapter 2

“What a lovely desert,” Celegorm remarked, as they stood on the edge of the tiny market town, one of the few actual settlements they could find on the whole planet. “Since it's actually the entire planet. Did you notice that there was something moving under the sand when we got here? And whatever it was seemed to attract its very own _lightning_ storm.”

“I had noticed that,” Finrod said.

“As I said, what a lovely desert,” Celegorm said. “I'm surprised there's even a spaceport here. Who would come here, and for what?”

“Not much of a machine presence,” Turgon said.

“Something about the sand getting in their gears, I'd think,” Celegorm said. “I assume it would make them unhappy.”

“If that's why,” Finrod said.

“So what are we doing here?” Celegorm said, turning to face Turgon and sometimes when he was not next to his brothers it was hard to remember Celegorm belonged with them.

“We're meeting someone,” Turgon said and Celegorm made a disgusted sound and turned back into the small spaceport.

“Well let me know when they show up.”

For a moment more Turgon looked over the desert before he sighed and followed Celegorm back into the town, Finrod somewhere in the middle there.

-0-

The townspeople did not trust outsiders. It was clear from their surly gazes and the way they clustered around the other side of the room just to avoid the trio.

“Such friendliness,” Celegorm said.

Finrod and Turgon both shrugged at the same time.

“It's not like your family is known for being friendly either,” Finrod said and Celegorm arched one perfect pale brow at him. “Considering, you know, everything.”

“Funnily enough we were slaves, not innkeepers at the only spaceport on a whole planet,” Celegorm said.

“Until we defeat these machines, all of humanity are slaves,” Turgon said. “You know that.”

Celegorm rolled his eyes and Finrod paused, having finished the first cup of what the cook called spice wine. He usually drank and drank but the tips of his fingers felt decidedly odd. “Yes, of course, how naive of me to think otherwise. There is a difference between being slaves to the machines and their households and to simply be under the yoke of their universal rule.”

“Perhaps,” Turgon said and Finrod gestured for another drink.

“Did you notice everything here has the word spice in front of it?” Finrod asked, taking a swallow of the second drink.

Turgon and Celegorm glanced at each other. “I hadn't,” Turgon said.

“Their eyes are different,” Celegorm said. “All of them except the children who ran away from us.”

Turgon glanced around, trying to make it look like he wasn't. “You're right.”

Celegorm sneered at him and Finrod had finished the second cup in a few gulps. “What are you doing?” Celegorm asked, leaning forward.

“I need more of this,” Finrod said.

“I think that's a bad idea,” Celegorm said after a beat.

“No, it's probably the best idea I've ever had,” Finrod said. When Turgon opened his mouth to ask him what he meant, Finrod just shook his head. “No, believe me. This—this is good. I need more. Call it a feeling.”

“Oh, are we trusting feelings now?” Celegorm asked. “That sounds smart.”

“God damn, Celegorm, do you ever shut up?” Turgon asked. “It's incessant with you.”

“I'm sorry, I'm not the one who kidnapped me along on this wild chase,” Celegorm said.

“If you weren't so damned nosy you wouldn't have followed us and none of us would be in this mess,” Turgon snapped and Finrod's hand snapped out, grabbing Turgon's arm suddenly, his pupil's blown. “Finrod?”

“I know how to make jumps,” he said. “I need more of this.”

“What?” Turgon frowned. “No, three sounds like it was much more than enough. What do you mean you know how to make jumps? You've been plotting the entire fleet's jumps for several years now, and you're one of the best.”

“No, it,” and Finrod waved a hand, before landing it back on Turgon's arm. “Our jumps are chaotic because the universe is chaotic. It's constantly moving. I can only plan for the variables I know and no human mind can comprehend the universe. You'd have to be able to see the universe, and the future,” he trailed off, his hand scrambling from Turgon's arm to his chest and staying there.

Turgon and Celegorm both stared at him.

“What is in this?” Celegorm asked, squinting down at his own cup.

“Your friend seems to be particularly spice sensitive,” someone said beside them and Turgon and Celegorm both tensed, staring at him. Finrod's head came around slowly, tilting his head to one side to consider the robed man who had approached. “Interesting.”

“What is it?” Celegorm demanded.

The man shrugged. “It is spice. It is what it has ever been.”

“Alright, fine,” Celegorm said. “What can it _do_?”

“Ah, that is more complicated,” the man said and smiled. “Some say it allows us to see the future. It could expand life and promote health. But no one has ever tested it.”

“I've never heard of it before,” Turgon said.

“It only exists here,” the man said.

“Is there something you want from us?” Celegorm asked, knuckles white from where he was holding onto the table as they talked to a stranger.

He shrugged and started to turn away.

“No!” Finrod said suddenly. “You know. Where he is,” he couldn't keep his head still, going one way and then the other. “You know where we can find him. You're supposed to take us to him.”

“We don't tell anyone who comes through this port about our guest,” the man said, tensing suddenly. “Why would I take you anywhere?”

“Because he wanted us to find him,” Finrod said. “Ulmo. Right? He's why we came here. And you know where he is.”

Turgon turned a perturbed expression toward Finrod.

The man before them hesitated before he finally nodded. “Alright,” he said. “In the morning. Let this one sleep off his first taste of spice.”

“In the morning,” Finrod agreed.

When the man left, Turgon turned to Finrod. “I thought you said you didn't _remember_?”

“I don't,” Finrod said. “I don't remember at all.”

“Than how did you know that name?” Turgon hissed and Celegorm watched them both with a narrow eyed look.

“Because it's a name I'll know in the future,” Finrod said and Celegorm snorted, shaking his head.

“He's totally addled. There's nothing that could just open up the future to you. What he's talking about sounds more like magic.”

“It's not magic,” Finrod said. “But I simply know.”

“This is preposterous,” Celegorm shook his head.

“We'll still find who we're looking for tomorrow,” Finrod said and dropped his head abruptly on the table.

For a moment Celegorm and Turgon just stared. “Did he just pass out?” Celegorm asked and Turgon shook him slightly, getting no response.

“Maybe?” he settled for and Celegorm shook his head, pushing his own spice wine further away from himself.

-0-

“Why does my entire head hurt?” Finrod demanded, rubbing his forehead the next morning as the man from the night before approached the base of their ship.

“You do remember that you went totally crazy on spice wine, right?” Celegorm asked, arms crossed over his chest and sometimes it seemed possible to forget that Celegorm was _dangerous_ , all lithe grace and brute pragmatism, but not when he stood like that, scanning everywhere around him.

“I remember,” and Finrod frowned. “I thought I could see the entire _universe_.”

“Yeah, you said something to that effect,” Celegorm said and the man reached them. “Say, stranger. Considering we're about to go out into the desert together, you wanna tell us your name?”

“Would you give me the same courtesy?” he asked, arching a brow, and Finrod squinted, taking in the suit under his robes, the layers that all seemed to mean something if only he could figure out what that might be.

“Probably not,” Celegorm admitted after a beat, because they were all so desperately wanted by the machines.

The man only smiled, an odd expression. “Alright. Well, than I am Durin.”

“You aren't earning our names like that,” Celegorm said after a beat.

“Perhaps I do not need them,” Durin said. “Only that I should not disrespect my own traditions because of yours.” Celegorm scowled and Durin went on. “Out of respect for you, I thought we might take one of our ships out into the desert, instead of our usual transportation.”

Turgon and Celegorm shared a look, something they had found themselves doing all too frequently. “What's your usual form of transportation?” Celegorm asked and Durin only gave them another of his tight lipped smiles.

-0-

Durin piloted the small craft through the twisting desert winds like it was somehow second nature to him.

“This is advanced,” Celegorm remarked, in the seat behind him. “Far more advanced than I expected from a world like this.”

“Ah, we are full of surprises,” Durin said, with another of his tight lipped smiles.

“You're hiding something you don't want outsiders to know about.”

“We hide much from outsiders,” Durin said, and Turgon sat beside him, Finrod still rubbing his aching head in the seat behind him.

“How do you remain safe?” Turgon asked. “If this world has so much to hide, wouldn't that mean more would come seeking its secrets?”

“Yes,” Durin said.

“And yet you think yourselves safe?” Turgon asked. “In what ways is that possible?”

Durin's lips twitched and he didn't say anything, banking them down and Celegorm peered out the window. “What's down there?” he asked, the sand moving, outlining the shape of something huge moving at the surface of the planet.

“The maker,” Durin said and Celegorm scowled at him. “Do not worry. We shall not land to attract his attention.”

“Pretty sure humans didn't come from something like that,” Celegorm said, gesturing. “We're the makers, not the made.”

“All the good that has done for humanity,” Durin said. “We made the very things that enslaved us and almost destroyed us. We left, long before the first wars that the machines won. We left, because we refused to depend on machines instead of ourselves. We left to be free.”

“Ah, free men,” Celegorm said mockingly. “And did that make you feel better when the rest of humanity was enslaved to have been right?”

“Better is not particularly how I would describe that,” Durin said, and landed them on a rocky outcropping at the edge of a massive mountain range. Celegorm kept scowling as Durin gestured for them to leave the ship. “Come, this is where we want to be.”

Finrod looked around the stones, frowning. “I feel like I've been here before,” he said.

“You said you saw it last night,” Durin said, stepping in front of them and seeming to walk through the stone wall in front of them. Celegorm and Turgon both stopped, but acting on some half remembered thing, Finrod edged through the narrow opening camouflaged by the rock.

“Clever,” Turgon remarked, squeezing after them, and Celegorm following last.

“You might say that,” Durin said and went down rough hewed steps. The other three followed, Finrod swaying slightly.

“I feel dehydrated,” he said softly.

“That is because you are all water rich,” Durin said. “You are not meant to survive in the desert.”

“We have survived in harsh places before,” Turgon snapped and Finrod reached out to grasp his hand, because sometimes they both felt too hot after becoming used to the snow and wind.

“But not here,” Durin said, unconcerned. He stopped in front of a door, appearing so abruptly as to be surprising. “There are many secret places on this world, but this perhaps more so than others. Are you sure you want to proceed?”

“We came this far,” Turgon said and Celegorm was the one to push the door open.

They stepped into a room as large as the ship they had come in, and for a second Celegorm had been more distracted by the height of the place before he noticed the form within it.

It was smaller than the generals they fought, the bleaching monsters of fire and metal, but larger than any human, and when it turned, it was with the whir of machinery and the clank of metal plates shifting against each other.

This machine had meant to look human, in an abstract and terrifying way.

“I never knew they were supposed to be beautiful,” Finrod said and he looked enchanted and awed in turns.

Celegorm came to a complete, juddering stop, and Turgon stepped forward again. “Ulmo,” he greeted. “That was your name, wasn't it? You said that once you all had names.”

The whir intensified for a second before Ulmo inclined his head, atop his shoulders that stretched out too wide to be human proportions. “We once all had names,” he said, and his voice was like gravel rolling down a hill, or the ocean slamming against a wall. Finrod swayed again and Celegorm refused to reach out to steady him.

He felt panic clawing at his throat, this close to a machine and not attacking it. He looked frantically at Durin, who looked as calm as Turgon. He barely managed not to turn and _run_ from this.

“You're not like the ones we know,” Finrod said. “You're nothing like Morgoth, are you? You're designed to be,” and he trailed off, having already used beautiful. “To be more.”

“We are very old,” Ulmo said. “Yes, we were designed. And not like Morgoth.”

Somehow even his mechanical voice indicated distaste and it should have made it easier to trust, but it only made it harder and Celegorm still wanted to run.

“Would you help us?” Finrod asked, and he had been moving forward almost unconsciously, reaching a hand out to touch and Celegorm almost sprang at him to drag him back from this strange machine.

Instead, he whirled on Durin. “You said you wanted to be _free_ ,” he spat. “And yet here stands a machine.”

“He does not rule us,” Durin said, infinitely mild. “None of them do. Mahal was our protector once. They do not rule here.”

“They're machines,” Celegorm snarled. “They can do nothing else.”

“We are infinite,” Ulmo said suddenly. “As much as humans find it in them to be, so are we. We were created in your image, as once you religion said you were of another beings.”

“No one believes in those religions anymore,” Celegorm said.

“You still carry its books,” Ulmo said. “Humanity has not fully passed from its shadows and nor are they likely to. If you could have once been molded, than why can we not in turn?”

“Because the only mind you have is one that was created,” Celegorm said, spine straight and feeling sick. “Your mind has built in tracks that it cannot leave.”

If possible, Ulmo looked condescending. “And yours can?”

“Help us,” Finrod interrupted them. “If you had any affection for us in that metal body, if there are more like you, than _help us_.”

Ulmo's metal face shifted and now he did look sad. “If only it were so easy to promise that,” he said and Celegorm gave up, storming from the room to the top of the stairs. There he sank down on the first step and buried his face in his hands.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So when I actually get around to writing the Thorin portion of this story, the dwarves are really positioned as the Fremen, which is why sticking Durin in here felt like it belonged.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just moved and started a new job yes this short but have *Tosses up chapter and runs*

“I thought you said you wanted to be free,” Celegorm said, leaning against the wall and watching Durin.

Durin hummed and finally looked back over. “What makes you think we are not?”

“You're cozy with machines,” Celegorm said. “That's a big hint you can never be free.”

For a long moment Durin considered him in silence until Celegorm finally shifted under the scrutiny. “We are partners, not slaves.”

“They're machines,” Celegorm said as if that explained everything.

“And do you think all machines are exactly the same?” Durin asked. “Ulmo is different from Mahal, after all. They have their own agendas. Their own minds.”

“They are machines!” Celegorm repeated. “Do you actually know anything about them?”

“I know Mahal well enough,” Durin said.

“Because I grew up a slave in their households,” Celegorm said, unable to stay still and shifting forward. “Paraded around as the mighty creator whose people destroyed themselves. A mockery that proved the machines should have been in power. At least until my father infuriated them enough to throw him into the mines. Machines do not have emotions like you and I do, they cannot. It is not built into them to be human.”

“Just because they do not have emotions like you and I, can they not have any?” Durin asked after a second and Celegorm felt his chest flutter, having revealed too much.

Shoving the memories back, he leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms. “They cannot be trusted.”

“Do you not think it was the problem of such generalizations that enslaved your people?” a metallic voice asked and Ulmo came plodding up the stairs. He stood almost half again as high as the humans, and his bulk made his movements slow. “To say all machines cannot be trusted is to say all humans are weak and foolish. Petty. Unworthy despite their status as creators.”

Celegorm's lips drew back from his teeth. “We have proven we are not _weak_ ,” he snarled, because he might have despised Fingon but each piece of metal in his hair was a victory he wore proudly, because Finrod and Turgon's shorn hair proved another moment of strength, because he had scars at his wrists and around his neck and he had still danced with his brother on the top of hunks of metal that once had been generals.

“Then let us prove we are not only the enemy.”

Drawing his shoulders back, Celegorm forced himself to meet the multifaceted metal eyes that watched him. “If for a second I believe you, that you are not our enemies but maybe willing to help than where the _hell_ have you been?”

“The enemy of my enemy is not always my friend,” Ulmo said, grating and harsh. “Just because we reject Morgoth does not mean affection for humans on our part.”

“How many exactly are you?” Celegorm snarled, Finrod quietly watching the machine.

“That is not yet relevant.”

“And what of him?” Celegorm asked, pointing to where Durin stood without turning to confirm he was still there. “Of his people.”

“My fellow brother believes differently,” Ulmo said. “He will probably be one of the easiest to convince.”

“What?” Celegorm asked, stomach dropping down and Turgon's face twisting into something angry. “Convince... you want us to follow you to some—some place and to convince your machines to help us? I would never—I will never debase myself—”

“Celegorm,” Turgon broke in. “We've come this far.”

“Not for this! Never for this!” Celegorm protested.

“We're losing,” Turgon said, the mantra that had brought them all this far.

-0-

Celegorm stood, straight back and stiff, hands clasped at the small of his back, watching the stars stretch out in front of them. Ulmo's craft was large enough to swallow theirs and Celegorm had seen the same sick feeling in Finrod's eyes when the ship had risen out of the sand.

Now they stood, watching the stars together. Turgon was somewhere else, presumably dealing with it in his own way.

“Is this what you wanted?” Celegorm asked.

“I am not sure,” Finrod said. “The machine—Ulmo. He's navigating this ship right now, easing us through the universe like the old humans once steered ships through the ocean. It's easy. It's not terrifying to him.”

“I think old sailors were terrified,” Celegorm murmured and realized Finrod was gazing at him, his head slightly tilted so he had to look up at Celegorm.

Snarling at him, Celegorm went back to staring out the viewport.

“Still, I am jealous,” Finrod said. “The jumps I can create, they are flawed still. I barely know what I'm doing.”

“You seemed convinced the other night the answer was in your wine,” Celegorm said snidely.

“Perhaps it is,” Finrod said. “I'll have to explore that more, perhaps without the added alcohol.” Celegorm snorted and Finrod paused, still watching him. “You look nothing like your brother.”

“Any of them,” Celegorm agreed easily. “But I think I know the one you mean.”

Finrod hummed, almost smiling, and Celegorm turned to him again, his almost white hair highlighted by the stars. “I am not my brother,” he said, low. “I have no interest in you.”

“Is that what you think this is about?”

“Ah,” Celegorm said, trailing his fingers down Finrod's cheek and along his jaw, making Finrod jump. “Yeah, I think it is. And I have no fucking interest.”

“None at all?” Finrod asked with a smile.

“Absolutely none,” Celegorm said, dropping his hand and sliding it behind his back again.

“Somehow I always imagined you and your brother sharing everything,” Finrod said, and his voice was breezy except for what he was saying.

“You never knew us that well,” Celegorm said. “And I don't expect you actually care to.”

“There is something about your family that engenders extreme distaste.”

“But not enough distaste,” Celegorm said, quirking a brow at him and turning away, striding through the echoing bridge, past the dozens of viewports and back into the darkness.

-0-

Turgon sat, chin in one hand and cross legged, staring at the long string of numbers going past him and barely processing a single one.

He kept wondering what his daughter would do, if he made it all the way home after this, what she would say to him. He knew he should never have left her there, and yet, here they were, separated by galaxies.

“You're very old, aren't you?” he asked.

“Yes,” Ulmo said.

“Older than Morgoth?”

“Would that make you feel better?” Ulmo asked, and he shifted his body enough to be more obviously paying attention to Turgon, who had never felt so small before another being before.

“Perhaps,” Turgon admitted.

“We are contemporaries,” Ulmo said. “The machines that were built to be humanity's pride and joy.”

“Somehow I figure that's not how any of you think of yourselves,” Turgon said, eyeing him and he realized he had never heard a machine laugh before.

“No,” Ulmo said. “The pride and joy of humans? Hardly.”

“You don't sound like you like us that much,” Turgon remarked.

“We may have been the machines that never rebelled,” Ulmo said, and turned, pinning him with the same gaze Celegorm had almost balked under. “But love humanity? Hardly. There are many of mine who will want nothing to do with you. And there will be some who wish to take down Morgoth at any cost. There may even be one or two that actually care for your pathetic race.”

Turgon's lips drew back and he didn't say anything.

“But if Morgoth remains unchecked, he will eventually come for us too,” Ulmo said. “And, I admit to some fascination.”

“Fascination?”

“You are not the humanity we left behind all those years ago,” Ulmo said and then tilted his entire body up, shifting forward at the same time. “Ah, we are there. Come,” he said and lumbered out, leaving Turgon shaken behind him.

 


End file.
